"That's the general idea."
"There's a limit to human insolence," Lyf said icily. "No wonder some of my colleagues occasionally incinerate members of your race."
Miss Twilley choked back the crudity that fluttered on her lips.
"That's better," Lyf said approvingly. "You really should practice self control. It's good for you. And you shouldn't make assumptions based upon incomplete data. Your books that deal with my race are notoriously one-sided. I came through that gateway because you needed my help. And yet you'd chase me off without really knowing whether you want my services or not."
"I don't want any part of you," Miss Twilley said sincerely. "I don't need a thing you can give me. I'm healthy, fairly well-off and"—she was about to say "happy" but changed it quickly to "satisfied with things as they are." It wasn't quite a lie.
Lyf looked at her critically. "Permit me to disagree," he said smoothly. "But you are wrong on every count. You are neither satisfied, wealthy nor happy. Frankly, Miss Twilley, you could use a great deal of help. In fact, you need it desperately."
"I am thirty-eight years old," Miss Twilley said. "That's old enough to recognize a high pressure sales pitch. And you needn't be so insulting about my appearance. After all, I don't have my makeup on."
Lyf flinched. "I almost hate to do this," he murmured. "But you have doubted my honesty. Perhaps it is compensation to hide a feeling of inferiority. Primitive egos are notorious for such acts. But the truth is probably less harmful than permitting you to lie to yourself."
Miss Twilley jumped angrily to her feet. "How dare you call me a liar!" she snapped. She towered over the Devi, her tall bony body a knobby statue of wrath.